So This is Your Scrap of Dignity
by Bellsie805
Summary: House and Cameron...one pretty Sunday, one little meandering day...with guest appearances by Cuddy and Wilson. Oh, every so often, the thing rhymes, too.
1. The Dreaded Telephone

**Author's Note:** "House" isn't mine…So I got this brilliant idea…iambic pentameter for House and rhymes about a phone…I can't decide if it's misguided brilliance (the ego!) or a lack of things to do. I opt for the latter. But this isn't iambic pentameter because I'm a terrible stressor and so you get this. Misguided attempts at rhymes in prose. No, there is no rhyme scheme except for the last line and the aside. They're supposed to rhyme. Any other rhymes are simply there to humor me…and some of you. It's a multi-chapter and it's H/Ca (duh!) Enjoy.

_His mother whispers quietly..._

_Heaven's not a place that you go when you die_

_It's that moment in life_

_When you actually feel alive_

_--Spill Canvas, "Tide"_

It's a cruel invention, and oh, how it bespeaks passionate condescension. Flying ships and sailing planes…see the world turn and spin.

(Make up patients to diagnose…his confessions to sin.)

_Pick it up; _a voice materializes from his past to haunt this present.

(He needs her one hundred and ten percent.)

"Will you be here in the future?"

(So, the guy tore out his frontal suture…)

And he speaks in tongues (curses, mostly) as he holds the receiver and asks clichéd Shakespearian questions to the 9 a.m. daylight. A horrible device that he rarely uses, but for now it must suffice. Face to face communication diminishes with advances of Bell's annoyingly antiquated creation.

(All of this—it's just the laws of primal civilization.)

The Nike slogan floats through the air and he feels a twitching in his jaw. With the absence of this tic he becomes a hypochondriac and a hypocrite. Oh, hypo-this, hypo-that, he wants to destroy the phone. But he can't because it's his only tool to evade being alone.

(Aha! Skin lesions equal fibrous dysplasia of bone.)

Sunday mornings belong to God, but he belongs to no one, man or an immortal sod. He fancies himself as a genius with a noticeable allegiance to painkillers and easy-to-find convenience. He rhymes to himself to comfort long lost English teachers. _You'll never amount to nothing_…ah; double negatives permeate through the nation.

(So, the woman pursues the man. The joyous effects of westernization.)

Little squares filled with numbers…leading to nowhere and infinity, blank space and full lines; he continues to fall. The path to her is written on a scrap of a gum wrapper, no bigger than it must be, waste one day turns into interplanetary paste.

(What can be derived from a momentary lack of taste?)

So, touch and push the buttons, (harder than necessary) just the way he wants to touch her and just the way he pushes her. It rings and rings for a year and half it seems (is it time to go Christmas shopping to get garish things?) There's a beep and her voice, mechanized by technology, hidden by the reverberations of his breath.

(Can she handle muscle death?)

He hates this frivolous impediment. His voice now, husky and arrogantly self-confident.

(Still thinking of symptoms and such…there will always be unfortunate incidents.)

"Riddle me this, whom do atheists worship on Sundays?"

(He wonders if she likes Monet.)

When he slams the phone down he ends the conversation that he realizes he's been carrying on with himself. He hopes she hears the slamming of the phone (and doors later). But hopes are for people whose God dictates will through a delicate figurine He calls the Pope.

(Allergic to oft-taken dope?)

Churches fill; he's all alone. Margaritas…still too early to drink. Never to early to contemplate the brink of the universe and, _if we reach it will we fall?_ He knows no answer and figures he'll drink to that. Excuses and reasons to provide himself—eternal critic and unforgiving cynic. Laws of gravity and physics need not apply; he'll take his decadent alcohol supply.

(This plan cannot go awry.)

So he'll wait for the call from the damnable telephone and hope to God (and other such deities) that she'll respond to a riddle he finds heartbreakingly sad.

(What makes him so abysmally mad?)

But he won't admit and "you must acquit!" His crimes are numerous and he has no sympathetic pleas…just sarcasm and its eternal glee. Take her hand and drop it down…she deserves someone who wears a crown. (She deserves and could acquire any man…let the record show the variable is he: House, of course.)

(And it's Cameron being propelled by that centrifugal force.)

A patient's dying somewhere, so he runs disease through is head. Viruses, bacterias, and all the like, his friendly companions. Tea for five today, he muses. "Good evening, Vic, Cane, E. Coli, and AIDS. Meet the infarction and my insurmountable charm."

(He must be lying about the acquisition of that rash on his arm.)

It takes mere minutes, but it seems like an eon because the journey leads to an end that he always forgets is coming. Pleased to introduce the glorious inevitable.

(…)

_It rings._


	2. God's Unwanted Children

_Half of the time we're gone but we don't know where,_

_And we don't know here._

_--Simon and Garfunkel, "The Only Living Boy in New York"_

She pulls weeds in her garden with a ferocious and nasty speed. If she destroys them she can finally rest for a moment. It's early, but there's no other time to do this dirty deed. In the morning there is promise unspoken—life will be borne again. By noon hope finds itself fading and by evening it is but a distant memory.

She's brought this house because of this little spot. The house is close to work and in the city (not the suburbs—she could never deal), but it's this special plot that provokes her most tender thoughts.

And then the phone trills its usual message. Someone is calling.

Screeching patients and dying dogs sound better than the damnable phone's annoying brrrrring. With lack of couth, but dogged vigor, it rings and rings.

She doesn't answer the phone because atheists pull weeds on Sunday mornings. Emergencies are rare—God likes to take the day to refrain from murder on His Sabbath day. If it's an emergency, she figures, they'll keep calling. And then she'll have to pick up and go from there.

"Riddle me this, whom do atheists worship on Sundays?"

There is no name attached to this sentiment and she hardly has time to recollect and reconcile the fact that she clutches a bundle of dirty weeds in one hand and a lost expression in the other. House?

She stumbles blindly and wildly onto her kitchen counter stool. Does he want her to think that she'll call back and then look like a fool?

With a dirty-gloved hand she wipes her face. There are traces of earth left on her cheek, across her nose, and a line on her chin. Should she call him back? The answer she fears is not in this mound of earth's unwanted children.

She has his number lying somewhere near. She sees it in her mind, floating in the blackness of her frontal lobes…but the numbers aren't clear…

She asks a Shakespearian question of no importance and finally realizes that there are weeds still in her hands. So she resolves herself, stands up, and walks through her kitchen door. She walks across her living room floor and into the foyer where she exits the house and deposits the weeds into an undignified pile.

So she rushes back into the house with an unusually purposeful gait. She walks to reach and to fulfill a seemingly bright fate.

His number has to be floating around upstairs—she thinks it may be in her address book. It's only when she is six out of ten stairs up when she realizes the obvious. She has caller ID.

As she flies down the steps, she berates her stupidity. At least this brings some of House's taunts validity.

She presses buttons on her wireless phone until his number emerges. She thinks briefly of numbers and the universality. It's a comfort for her in so many areas of her life. Mathematics always brought her unbridled safety. 'X' is always discerned as a number and one plus one always equals two. No interpretation or variation.

Well, at least she likes to think math is devoid of interpretation. Whenever House is in the room anything is open to argumentation.

Her glove remains on her hand and she knows there are streaks of soil left on the white phone. But she doesn't care, even if the excess fabric makes her thumb clumsy and she must dial extra slowly. Carefully.

When it rings four times she fears the worse. But she'll face his answering machine with a reply to his question that is equally as terse.

She has thought about this quite a bit, for she is practiced in planning ahead. Even if she forgets that her phone is equipped with caller ID, she knows what she is going to say. She always knows even when she never speaks what she thinks.

It's not his gruff words spewing from the phone, but a robot's diction and odd voice. She smirks because she had an inkling that this would be his message of choice.

"This atheist worships a cowardly bastard who refuses to pick up the phone. I—"

She's hears the breathing on the other end of the phone. All she's ever known is slowly disappearing, as is her certified safe zone.

"Let's do coffee."

It's his voice that slinks through the receiver. She doesn't think there is a god, but slowly she thinks she could become a believer.

"Where?"

"Northern Light Café. Suitably New Age. Ten minutes will be okay."

She gulps for salvia and air. She doesn't hear the trumpets she expected—there is no fan fair.

"Alright."

There's a pause on the other end. She waits to see if he will amend.

But then there is silence, static, and dial tone. So she clicks the off button with a silly smile on her face. It's a comical picture. She reaches for her dishtowel and wipes away the dirt that resides on her face. She still wears the gardening gloves.

And it all feels like a dream. She trails a gloved finger over her arm and she knows it's not a dream because left in the finger's place as it recedes is a dirty stream.

She can't shower because time does not permit it, so she rushes upstairs to change into something more appealing.

Ten minutes.


	3. What Counts as BAD BRUNCH CONVERSATION

_So what if you catch me, _

_Where would we land? _

_In somebody's life _

_Forsaking his hands. _

_Sing to me hope as she's _

_Thrown on the sand._

_--Remy Zero, "Fair"_

When they arrive at the same time, he blames it on coincidence and she blames it on fate—differences that are hardly significant. They are both, oddly, on foot. She is happy because it saves her from searching the café or asking if the wait staff has seen a "bitter old cripple" and it saves him from leaving. He never asks for help.

He doesn't look at her, except for a tilt of his head in her direction. She follows him into the building and they sit down at a table at the side of the café. An unobtrusive waitress takes their order (there is really no order to be taken—coffee, they both request.)

The coffee arrives in the midst of their silence and it's only the pouring of milk and clinking of spoons in sugar that interrupts their quiet.

"So, tell me," he motions to her as he drinks his coffee extra slow, "about the end to this corny picture show."

She smiles benignly through creamer and milk with a reply that resembles oft thought of mortality and death and all the other morbid things.

"We die and fertilize. Oh, did you mean before that?"

The bitter end; he shakes his head. This is always how it ends.

"I don't know why I'm here," he resists ending it with _dear_. The coffee's bitter taste reflects the effervescent sparkle of her face. Black reflecting light—ironies are sure to abound.

"Yes you do. You can't have Stacy and my husband's dead so we settle for what we can get. I can get you and you can get me, so let's have sex…we both want to be happy."

She speaks the truth, that he does know, but how can he tell her that this frail defensiveness is a pent-up mess of emotions—and one day when they go away he'll be nothing. Nothing for her to fix or love…nothing for her to mend or to break. At this time, his eyes tell her all the secrets she wants to know, but she's staring into her bleak coffee cup.

The screeching of the phone interrupts this accidental farce. Someone answers, someone frowns, oh, how the world goes 'round. He imagines her with phone to ear…beauty and the beast (except this time he's not the beast…he's flesh and blood and _human_…just _human…_)

"You fear," she taps her fingers on the table and he awaits her psychological diagnosis with two grains of salt pinched between his fingers and two eyebrows quirked in knowing admiration.

"You fear humanity, mortality, and insanity," she taps again and takes a sip—a salute, a send-off, a snubbing movement.

"No wonder you're a terrible diagnostician. You spend too much time dabbling in psychology."

He's told this one-laugh joke twice too many times and he's come to this two-horse town bearing three horses too many. He underestimates her power and control and she overestimates his sarcasm and wit.

"We're two lost souls swimmin' in a fish bowl."

"Stop quoting long-gone rock bands. You don't believe in God but you believe in me. Care to explain?"

She sticks a long, practiced finger into her black coffee and brings it up to her mouth where she licks it off delicately. She looks hurt when he frowns, so she answers his question with a bit too much hesitation. It's somewhere between a pregnant pause and an uncomfortable uncertainty.

"You're real. God's not."

"Your husband died. He was real."

"And I worship him because he's a saint. I worship you because you make sense."

He drops the silver spoon on the floor and waits patiently for the waitress to implore about the thing's condition—his response: 'oh, it's very poor.'

"I make sense," he makes no move to the floor. Just her face shaking up and down—agreeing to a statement that he is about to explain is wrong.

"I don't make sense," he downs the coffee in one fell swoop—and it's not the only thing that's downed; her ship of hope has just run aground.

She sticks out her foot and he can feel it graze his leg (it's a whisper of dead cells on dying ones...only they can hear). She drags the spoon back to her hand, picks it up, and delicately sets it back down in front of him. She takes her own coffee and downs it just as quickly.

"So, this is your Kryptonite," she muses aloud and he for the first time during the conversation has no idea what she means because green rocks are irrelevant as far as he sees.

"What is my Kryptonite? Fallen spoons and sappy women? I don't love you; Wilson wasn't home."

"Your Kryptonite is the finite difference between wrong and right."

He doesn't understand her, but that's another matter for a more meaningful time. He takes his napkin; he takes his time. She smiles since she knows he feels cornered.

"Why do you think men enjoy torture?"

"I don't. I simply need bring my self down to your level so we'll know exactly where we each stand."

She lets her chin rest on her left hand while her right hand grasps her left arm's forearm. Her eyes dance and her mouth winks.

"And where exactly do you stand?"

His lips curl into a memorized sneer of top teeth and lower lip. She smiles placidly with an air of complacency.

"Somewhere between true love and desperate adoration."

He almost chokes on his salvia, but covers his momentary weakness with a derisive snort.

"True love is not found is New Age cafes replete with bitter old men and starry-eyed women. True love is a pile of festering shit that both of us have already experienced and want so desperately again. True love—pfft."

She flags the waitress and requests another coffee—half and half. She considers the statement with a fading smile and when the coffee arrives back again she removes from a hidden pocket an unmarked pill bottle. She removes the cap and out comes amber gold to fill the cup.

"When you said half and half I thought you met half regular and half decaf. Not half coffee and hard liquor."

She laughs fully and brilliantly. It's not grating like a phone's shrill _brrring_ or sweet like a practiced debutante. It's pure, elegant, and _real_.

"This—this isn't liquor. Sorry I can't let you borrow any. It's _honey_," she smiles and puts the cup to her lips.

"You put _honey _in your coffee? I thought that was honey was exclusive to tea. Excuse me if my British customs seem to be dated. Where's Chase when you need him?"

She almost passes hot coffee through her nose, but is able to swallow the liquid before responding to his question.

"Yes, I do. And Chase is Australian. Not British. For all your supposed brilliance, I can't fathom how you fail to see the difference between British and Australian. I mean, haven't you ever heard him say 'the dingo ate it?'"

He smirks and watches as she lowers her mug back to the table to rest it on the napkin.

"No, I don't believe I have."

"Well, I haven't either. But that's beside the point. He's Australian."

She cleans her coffee-stained spoon off with her napkin and puts it into the sugar bowl. She removes it with a little tower of sugar on the spoon and moves it to her coffee. Right before she dumps it in, he speaks.

"Your first proper diagnosis in a long time. Good job, Dr. Cameron."

He startles her with the praise and an unintentionally large amount of sugar lands next to her coffee cup, rather than in it. He always makes her nervous when he praises her. And she _always_ makes him nervous.

"Why do you still want her? What did she ever do for you?"

The question involves a nameless 'her' but it makes him flinch in surprise and consternation. He expects harsh question but not about this touchy subject.

"She's pretty, feisty, and intelligent. There is nothing more to ask for in a woman."

"Was she good in bed?"

It's his turn to choke on his coffee and she remembers conversations past with Chase about sex and sweaty human instinct.

"The best. But it's only fair to turn this question right back to you. Living with a lawyer, you learn many things. Cross-examinations are most prominent. What was he like in bed?"

They refer to their exes (dead and living) in pronouns and blurry terms. Hazy language makes them disappear.

"Fantastic."

"You married a dying man for the 'fantastic' sex. Even more superficial than I imagined."

Coffee-bean breath emits from her mouth, flying its way to meet his nose. Her grasp on her coffee cup grows and grows—the exertion might shatter it into pieces, like delicate bone.

"You're wrong."

"I'm right."

She glares and feels hatred swelling in her veins. But that's important. Hatred and love—passion and fire. Indifference is the worst feeling one can possess towards another human being. Feeling is essential.

"So you always have to be right? Damn you."

"Usually I get a thank-you considering my work requires me to hobble onto the right answer. Oh, hobbles not a good word. Makes you feel really bad for me. What's the word…?"

"Pity, I think you're grabbing for."

He scrapes his finger along the edge of the table and thinks of her nails dragging on his back leaving marks of irrefutable sin. Comfortable conversation beckons, but caution's never on his mind for more than a few inconsequential seconds.

"Ah, pity. The word itself is ugly and absurd. Wouldn't you concur?"

He figures she'll agree with anything that he places (dangles) in front of her face. But she leans in, hands folded, shrink's empty gaze remains plastered on her mug. Oh, what is to come?

"It's a pretty word that you detest. But you do hate pretty things. Do you find them too perfect? Shall I draw a jagged scar right through my cheek? Will imperfection suit you better then?"

Her voice is malice, pure and sweet. It drips like her honey into non-existent tea (but rather coffee, its odd American variation.)

So he grasps his cane and taps in time to the passing seconds and two-bit rhyme. Tap, tap, tap. He wants to drive her insane because she thinks he fears insanity when all he really fears is love. (How can a man who experiences death fear mortality? And humanity's just an excuse for this pathetic existence.)

"Remove yourself from your existential observations. Put yourself in my situation."

She leans back. This is a duel with shades of Burr and Hamilton. Will she shoot or will she fudge? Will he bluff or will he aim? Death and pity become one and the same.

"You walk with a limp. And you think your battered heart makes you a…wimp. So you hid behind every sarcastic quip and witty trip hoping to find solace in facades that provide no shade from scalding damnation."

He stops tapping; she leans in to him. He steeples his fingers. 'This is church. This is a steeple. Open the doors and see all the people.'

"Life's a play and we're all in disarray because curves are thrown and we realize something we've always known."

She smirks.

"What's would that be?"

"That this matters little and tomorrow it'll matter none."

"I beg to differ."

"As do I."

She can't look at his eyes because he can beguile her with a glance. Hold her heart with a simple breath. She lacks control and he watches her crumble into broken pieces of stone.

"This isn't life," she murmurs.

"Then what is this?"

"What we're living? This isn't life. What we're living is a poor attempt to hold up our end of the bargain."

"I thought you were an atheist."

"Aren't we all?"

"Deep musings on religion? It's too early to make these incisions."

She swirls the end of her fork in her coffee, mixing sugar and sour milk to make a brown mixture that will be no more affective in advancing the cause of the world than Bell's misguided, money-making scam.

"Shall we do politics instead? I've always had a passion for incredibly stupid men."

His hands fall to his stomach; something's growling, something's gnawing.

"You haven't always been an atheist. You're too much of a caring Christian/Baptist/Methodist. Was it standing by his grave? Did that make you lose the faith?"

Her head falls to her hands and his refuse to move. Is this the sacrifice we make for conversation and loving moments of information?

But her head pops back quickly. She regains her balance.

"When did you lose faith in the human race? When she used her proxy to insure you a decent life free from a leg brace?"

Her remark dribbles from her lips and lands into his empty coffee cup with a noticeable _ping_. But neither notice for both are wrapped up in the accusation of the other. It's a chess match of wit. She's no Stacy, but she certainly holds up her end of this twisted bargain.

"Rove can certainly tell a lie."

His hands remain seemingly placid on his chest while hers seek her cheek to fight an itch.

"Yes he can."

So, he knows they change the subject because death and betrayal are NOT GOOD BRUNCH conversations. Because as long as they live they'll still be jammed into the righteous mold formed from good upbringings in Christian homes.

"I've never asked and I never will again, but are you a bleeding heart liberal or a compassionate conservative?"

His hands come up to rest on the table as he assumes the position of the shrink.

"There's a difference?"

"So we're told."

"Everybody lies," she murmurs as her arms cross on her chest and she leans back in her chair to contemplate his face.

"My line."

"Who's on first?"

"I thought sports metaphors were above your head. And certainly Abbot and Costello are before your time."

"Yours too, you Neanderthalian man."

"Damn it. I thought you'd go back farther than that. I was hoping for something like…Adam."

She leans in now, so this is now an intimate conversation between two opposing forces. Positive and negative. Cat and dog. Wrong and right.

"Religion escapes me."

"We're not right."

"And we're not wrong."

"Too hot, too cold, just right. Where's the happy medium to all of this drabble, Cameron?"

"Somewhere that doesn't involve us drinking bad coffee."

"And dabbling in politics and religion."

"We don't have common ground."

"Except for medicine and eternal condemnation."

"I'd like to think there is no afterlife."

"And miss the wild after parties?"

She reaches out and touches his nose, and unusually tender gesture. He recoils sharply, as does she, for she realizes her mistake and cannot cover quickly enough. So he spares her the indignity and signals the waitress. The check appears and Cameron hands it to him.

"You're new name is Adam and I'll be Eve. We can play charades for the day. Tomorrow'll be here tomorrow and we'll resume the roles we left. But for now, let's change this play."

He reaches into his pocket to produce a twenty. He slaps it on the table on top of the paper check. His fingers dance Beethoven's ninth on Jackson's elegant face.

"I was thinking more Bonnie and Clyde. Rhett and Scarlett."

She shoots him a glance under flirting eyelashes.

"Adam and Eve sound good to me."

He shrugs and stands and she takes his empty, cane-less hand. It is during times like this that he wishes he had two crutches, but he doesn't let go because the last human contact was Stacy's lip to his stubbled-cheek. His normally fast-paced, walk-limp is being hampered by Cameron's…Eve's…cling. He drops her hand to go through the doorway…

They exit.


	4. The Safety of Olives

_Excuse me_

_Too busy_

_Writing your tragedy_

_These mishaps_

_You bubble wrap_

_When you've no idea what you're like..._

_--Frou Frou, "Let Go"_

Walking scares him beyond the imaginable boundaries of the infinite universe. The cane can stick in a sidewalk crack and not break his mother's back, but his own. It can break his precarious existence, since he teeters on the verge of nothing and everything, of Cameron, of comfort…of familiarity.

(And this is new, unchartered territory—land of the living—and its details fill his head, but mostly there is uncertainty.)

She walks beside him and is another crutch if he wants, but he doesn't. He doesn't need help because being strong means never asking for another human being's help. Being strong means never giving up, means never losing…and usually it means never winning, either.

(The patient wakes up and three feet from the bed must take a breather.)

There's dialogue, but for him it's never intrinsic. It never has been he feels and it never will be. Words are pathetic. Words are useless. Words are a waste of his time. And God knows how much he hates useless things.

(She hates God—there must be some attached strings?)

He doesn't trust people because everyone lies to protect themselves, to protect someone else, to be a "good" person…because lies of omission are so much less damaging than outright lies. That's why he doesn't trust love, because people are evil.

(This disease—perhaps something medieval?)

He tells her these thoughts and she launches into a diatribe on how he needs to trust and love…experience life. This is Wilson's pulpit speech. Perhaps they spend too much time studying each other's notes (okay, it's Cuddy's too, but everyone in the hospital is out to get him…paranoia takes flight.) Even she doesn't like it very much, but she lives it. And didn't we have this conversation nary a few minutes ago?

(She's infuriatingly pretty and the thought's so hard to let go…)

He trusts her now. He blames it on the nicknames—highly personal considering she thinks God is crap and religion is shit. Adam and Eve. How perfectly ironic.

(These symptoms are chronic.)

He doesn't know where she's taking him and the feeling is disorientation. It throws him off his well-placed guard and he knows what she's doing. Manipulation makes a coffee date (APPOINTMENT) seem rather meaningful.

(He's lived with himself for 40-some years now and he's never felt himself so doubtful.)

It's her presence that is unsettling, he concludes. Too much heady perfume. But it's not heady, and it's not cloying, it's oh-so-beautiful, enhancing her natural oils (or are the oils enhancing the perfume?) She's beautiful. She's beautiful. And he's…not.

(Male. 46. Painful swelling in the heart.)

He's the ugly duckling except he's not going to be beautiful and handsome because this is not a fairy tale. Life isn't for Disney and magic. Life is life. There is no way around it. It's morbid and morose and melodramatic, but it's life. And all he can do is muddle through it and happen upon a safe place where he can crawl up in the fetal position and stay there…just stay there.

(And now the wind flies through her hair.)

He's weak, but he covers that. He has to or else they'll all take advantage of him. The cane bears the sign: "take advantage of me! (oh, and pity me later.)" If he doesn't put up his façade of strength then he'll never make it. How can she ever understand that?

(He has more lives than an alley cat.)

But he's not weak, he reminds himself. He's strong and strong people aren't weak. Obviously.

(She talking and he's listening blindly.)

"We could record this," he thinks. If people voluntarily listen to William Hung, he's sure that America's impressionable young generation will pony up $15 to buy a CD filled with the harmony of his dragging cane and her clicking heels.

(And now the man's going insane—going against all his well thought of ideals.)

The destination remains wrapped in her memorable membrane. There's nothing he knows and there's nothing he can do. She makes him cross roads when the side reads, "don't walk" and she avoids the crosswalk because rules are silly. They mean nothing. It's like everyone's conforming to fate and fate conforms to destiny. And everyone knows destiny is an avid conformist.

(The old women smile on the street because she's such an angelic atheist.)

When they arrive outside the Piggly-Wiggly he grimaces and her mouth turns squiggly. So this has been the destination that he suspects she never knew would be the end. Because she is still making this up as they enter the store. Because he knows she's exactly like him. And he's infinitely unsure.

(So, he spends his life spinning in a mist of unknown maladies and searching for an ambiguous cure.)

His cell phone rings a mirthless tune. She quirks her head and leaves him to explore. He picks up the offspring of his enemy.

"House."

"Where the hell you've been? No one picked up at the apartment."

"Jimmy Wilson my sworn protector. I went out for some coffee with the lovely Dr. Cameron. How was your delicious experience at church?"

"Not one I want to repeat. Damn Julie's niece. Wait! You, coffee, _Cameron_? I think I felt the universe tilt."

He moves down the aisle, investigating a can of olives to avoid the scrutinizing gaze of inept consumers.

"So, call Cuddy and spread rumors."

Wilson snorts and he bends down to look at the Nutritional Facts on the back of the can. How…fascinating.

"I'm glad you're out. You need it. Badly."

"Oh, here comes Dr. Cameron bearing condoms. I'll call you later."

He clicks the 'end' button and moves onto the other brand of olives because olives are interesting. Because olives are safe. Because olives aren't Dr. Allison Cameron.

(And because it's not his style to write love-worn declarations like Lord Byron.)

She comes skipping down the aisle with a bag in hand and he realizes she's checked out and he hasn't stopped staring at the olive can's sunny little label. She's so fast, so sure, so young…

(His confusion's only just begun.)

"You gonna buy that?"

(He doesn't know how to do this—maybe he'll love her when the world's flat.)

"No."

(He needs different blood…he's a type O.)

He watches through eyes that cannot be his own as she quirks a smile and takes his hand again. Again.

(She's got eyes that realize there will only ever be hard liquors. He's not one for bubbly Champaign.)

"C'mon, Adam."

"Lead the way, Eve," he grunts his consent.

(Being diagnosed is not a happy event.)

The automatic doors swoosh open for another anonymous couple and he knows people stare at him because of the cane, because of pity, because…

But everything's okay now…she's next to him.


	5. He Will Survive

**Author's Note: **Thanks to Marti for the help with this chapter and the ideas. I'm certainly not over writer's block, so the chapters will be slower in coming.

_Smeared black ink: your palms are sweating, and I'm barely listening to last demands._

_I'm staring at the asphalt wondering,_

_What's buried underneath where I am?_

_--The Postal Service, "The District Sleeps Alone Tonight"_

They leave the store and the air is refreshingly oppressive. She doesn't speak and he doesn't attempt to start a conversation. She picks the destination again.

"Where are we going?"

She closes her eyes and spins around. The choices start to whittle down.

"There are four directions. How long will this take you?"

She wants to reply an eternity and maybe more. But when she's done she frowns because she's too dizzy to turn anymore.

"I don't know where you plan to take me, but I'd like to get a car. My leg doesn't hold up as well as it used to. Ya know, infarction and all?"

"Ah, so return to your tried and true defense. Applause for the gentleman wielding the cane."

He squints at her and can't think of any good comeback. She has found a crack.

She revels a moment in the euphoric elation of victory. It's a small victory, but she considers any win a win and does not dwell on the size or importance. Battles are yet to be fought.

Cameron glances into his eyes. There is no reflection of atmosphere; the blues of his irises match the sky.

They stand now, not circling, but contemplating. He speaks first and it's with a mix of genuine interest and hardened derision.

"You worship broken men."

"You want a married woman."

She kicks a rock and watches it roll to a stop in the middle of the sidewalk. He takes his cane and swipes at it. The hapless rock skips across the pavement and onto the street with merely a small noise. It's like them in this large world; they make no more than an undetectable plink.

The flow of people streaming down the street forces them closer to one another. She shivers with the force of the 98.6 degrees of body heat radiating from him towards her.

The people continue to move past them on the streets, melodramatic thoughts speeding through their minds. Anyone of them, she knows, can be a terrorist with a bomb, a mother with an errand, or a teenager on their way to a friend's house. People are blank and she fills them in to suit her needs. They aren't personalities, but empty slates. She knows that she's just another blank slate for them, too. They'll fill her in as House's daughter, disgruntled lover, or sympathetic friend. He's probably a miserable cripple and she's probably his loving caretaker.

But the truth is always shadier than the lie and she's so frustrated by this mess that she wants to cry.

"Call a cab," he angrily growls.

Her hands fly to her hips and she purses her shiny lips.

"You."

"Defiant much?" He pokes her ankle with his cane. She kicks it away.

"Taxi!" She shouts with a little too much verve and reverberating vibe.

She doesn't know what to say because words escape both of them when they need them. A cell phone plays some glaringly bad pop song and she waits for House to crack a sparkling gem.

But he doesn't and the taxi comes. It's an odd carriage, she imagines, for a would-be prince and his would-be princess.

"After you Prince Charming," she mutters.

He sweeps in and then she sits down next to him. She directs the driver to a nearby park where geese and pigeons feed on leftover crumbs from generous octogenarians.

"You don't believe in God, but you'll invest your faith in fairy tales. Fascinating," he murmurs looking at the glass divider, but never her face.

"I don't believe in fairy tales."

"But you believe in me."

He turns his head accusingly. She meets his gaze.

"I've learned to stop believing in people. I believe in what you do."

"And you don't believe in God and His miracles? But you believe in mine?"

"Because yours are tangible. Real."

"There are different types of miracles?" He ridicules her with a sarcastic inflection of the last word.

There's an uncomfortable silence. She jerks her head to look out the window. The pop songs play on endlessly; there is no difference between artists and titles, and the melodies are trite variations. House eagerly taps his cane to keep his mind occupied, but she knows these songs must irritate him just as much as they irritate her.

There are the smells, typical eau de taxi, but something else, too. She watches his nostrils flare in an attempt to classify her scent.

"It's Chance."

"Chance?"

She briefly wonders if she'll spend the next hour explaining the logic behind her choice of perfume, but he nods his head gently. She speculates on whether or not he's avoiding conversation intentionally.

They're built on crumbling foundations. As the taxi hurtles to its known location, she fears the terminal implications.

She feels close to him. It's a tight fit in the back of the taxicab and his bad leg remains its own separate body. She's never been this close to him. Her nose turns on its own volition and inhales the musk of hospital and broken people.

His eyes delve into hers, reading her mind. But he's always had a fatal flaw regarding human motivation—he's emotionally blind.

So, she uses it to her advantage and strokes his thigh. This is turning into a game of cat and mouse with no definitive roles. He takes her hand and stops it in mid-stroke.

"Stop."

She withdraws her hand and her face to glare at the passing trees. Dealing with livid women is the plant's unerring expertise.

The car whirrs and hums, giving notice that words are not supposed to be spoken because taxis provide as much privacy as public bathroom stalls.

They've tried religion and innocent innuendo. This trip starts to become nothing more then a decrescendo.

"Maybe we're not meant for this," she whispers to the window, and she knows he can hear because he hears everything.

And now they're speeding along at their terminal velocity. The two of them are nothing more than unwanted curiosities.

Cameron knows that the driver thinks they're no different than any other hesitant couple he's ever ferried. They're nameless and will vanish into facelessness. The sensation is akin to a conversation via telephone.

The cabby's asking for more directions and they're at the end of the physically short, but emotionally long drive. She grapples with her bills before leaving without a glance in at House's direction—he will survive.


	6. Fear

**Author's Note: **Sorry for the wait in updates. This is a tough story to write because of its poetic nature. I can't guarantee when the next update will be and I'm sorry Cuddy's appearance at the ends is abrupt. Thanks to all the reviewers and Marti, my beta.

_He looks around, around _

_He sees angels in the architecture _

_Spinning in infinity _

_He says Amen! and Hallelujah! _

_--Paul Simon, You Can Call Me Al_

She leaves the taxi groping for money, but ultimately leaving him to pay.

He shakes his head as he stumbles out of the car behind her. He throws some bills at the taxi driver, interspersing the bill throwing with adamant recitations of _I don't want to damn receipt. _

"Damn it, Cameron, slow down. Remember, I walk with a cane."

She turns on him and glares for a moment with sympathy. He avoids her glance and he knows she uses sympathy as a weapon. She knows he hates it and she uses it as her sugarcoated weapon of mass destruction.

She walks to the path that winds through the park. There is a bench to her left and the river to her right, but she refuses to sit down. Sitting down will show that they are on a level playing field. She doesn't know if it's time yet to equal their stances.

Pain, though, does not wait for equality. It strives and infiltrates with vigor. House collapses on the bench.

"Sit down."

"I'm fine standing."

She's standing too close to him and he's able to quickly stick out his cane and whack the back of her ankles with it. She yelps in pain and stares at him—he promises not to crush her, but he's hurt her.

"Jesus Christ. That was not necessary."

"I used 'please' and that didn't work. Oh, and even if you're an atheist, don't use the Lord's son's name in vain," he smirks as she collapses next to him (although they both know 'please' never fell from his lips).

Pain, it should be noted, is also the great equalizer.

He faces the river and lets his hands fall on one another and rest on the cane's head. She keeps her hands folded between her thighs.

"It's pretty," she murmurs.

"Anything's pretty to you."

She turns to look at his face and all she sees is his profile and a calculated bob of his Adam's apple.

"And are you so bad that you think you don't deserve something beautiful?"

She includes herself in the description of all things 'beautiful.' He knows that.

"I had something beautiful. And now I don't. Shit happens."

_The shit hits the fan_. Always does and always will. No vaccine is available for that particular problem.

"Yeah, but shit happens and people move on. Big deal," she shrugs her shoulders because she has certainly seen a lot of 'shit'.

He snorts before replying. (He snorts more than a pig, she notices. He tries to be derisive, but tends to end up sounding more and more like the farm animal.)

"Dr. Cameron, you curse? Don't dirty that _pretty_ little mouth of yours with such language."

She's angry at his avoidance on a direct question (she pities the lawyer who has to cross-examine him for a court case, but they're professionals and she isn't—_perhaps that's why a lawyer was the woman for him._)

"I have a differential diagnosis, Dr. House. Are you sure you don't have some form of ADD? You jump from topic to topic awfully quickly," she infuses her voice with enough sarcasm to make the quip hurt. He turns his head towards her and she turns her head towards the river.

"Don't play a game at which you're not skilled, Dr. Cameron. You'll always lose."

"Perhaps I'll have beginner's luck," she replies a little too cheerily.

He stands up painfully and starts walking down the path. He can't stand it anymore. He's not sure he can handle her practicing her sarcasm on him.

She stands up and continues to walk next to him. They pass a happy family (and as they do, House wants to make some snide remark about facades and illusions and a play he once saw. Cameron wants to reach for the smallest child and hold him until she convinces herself that the child is hers.)

"Sentimental, Cameron?" He chirps instead.

"I've always wanted a family," she replies.

He shifts uncomfortably. Silence falls.

They continue their walk down the winding path. A bicyclist careens haphazardly past them. House barely has time to jump out of the way of the oncoming cyclist. Cameron leaps to the side. When the biker finally zooms past (without a glance backward to see the separated pair), House and Cameron converge back on the path.

"Stupid Lance Armstrong-wannabes," House mutters.

"At least she's doing something," she retorts.

"I thought you were on my side in this battle," he throws a glance at her. She smirks.

"Didn't you ever dream of being something…_fantastic_?" She asks even though she anticipates a derisive answer.

"Oh yes, I dreamed of growing up and running cripples over on my new, thousand dollar bike. Yes, those were the days," he enthuses the sentiment with his usual sarcasm.

"But didn't you ever want to be, like, something so utterly unreasonable, but it seemed at one point, like it could come true?" She asks, staring ahead towards the moving river.

He purses his lips.

"I wanted to be a jazz pianist once. Actually, I kind of fashioned myself more like Ray Charles. Except for the blind part," he hobbles along on his cane. She watches his fingers twitch from anxiety and Vicodin need.

"You know what I wanted to be?"

"Lemme guess. You wanted to work in a veterinarian's office and heal sick puppies and kitties," he grimaces at the thought.

"I wanted to be president."

"President of what? The local girl scout brigade?"

"Of the United States."

He snorts.

"You in politics? That's more ridiculous than me saying I wanted to be a puppy- and kitty-saving vet."

"That's why they're called dreams."

He doesn't say anything and continues to walk alongside of her. Her hand twitches in the air (not out of need for Vicodin or anxiety, but out of desire.) She molds the air into the shape of his hand and clings to the particles of oxygen hoping that they might bond and become solid. But they don't and he doesn't offer his hand. He makes sure his cane is firmly entrenched in the one nearest to her.

"Why are you scared of me?" She asks when they reach the river's edge. He doesn't look at her, but instead watches the crew teams from the university and the fishermen out in the middle of the water.

"Why _aren't_ you scared of me?" He asks. She looks at him and contemplates his profile. What is he thinking? She cannot tell, but perhaps he's thinking about her.

"I asked first."

"Doesn't matter."

"Yes it does."

"No, it doesn't."

Neither of them notice as a woman sprints down a path that is parallel to the one on which they argue. The woman's black hair bounces happily in its ponytail. She turns her head towards the two and almost trips over her own feet. _House and Cameron?_

"I'm not afraid of you," he whispers.

"Wilson told me not to hurt you."

The woman dashes to hide behind the nearest tree. She ducks and keeps watching the couple (and listens to their conversation.)

He turns around and starts walking away from her. No matter how fast and far he walks, he'll never be able to separate himself from her. He'll never be able to separate himself from Stacy. The women in his life take a part of him (leg, heart) and keep them for herself. He can do without one leg and perhaps his heart, but he fears the woman who steals his mind.

She knows that he's not too far away to hear her repentant sigh. She murmurs into the air (and hopes he will hear.)

"You're everything I can never be."

He stops and turns. Cuddy gasps behind the tree. A fisherman reels in a fish.

"That's why I could never fear you," she finishes and stares out in the distance.

He stares at her back. Cuddy grabs her cell phone.

"James?" Cuddy whispers in the phone's mouthpiece as she watches the two people stand gazing at the river (House figuring he can take in Cameron with the excuse of the river and Cameron thinking she can gain strength from the water).

"Yes?" Wilson responds quizzically.

"We have a problem."


	7. Boobs & Dickey

**Author's Note: **Change of voice/tone in the chapter, but that's because I'm working with the Cuddy/Wilson duo, not H/Ca. Look at it this way—next chapter you get House in the confessional.

_After all, well, isn't this_

_Just a momentary thing_

_It's not like it's permanent_

_Or any heavy thing_

_--Something Happens, "Momentary Thing"_

"We have a problem? Watching a little too much _Apollo 13_? I was surprised you didn't address me as 'Houston,'" Wilson says as he slips into her car.

"Don't sass me or I'll start calling you 'Bubba' just because I like _Forrest Gump_. Did you bring the food?"

He holds up a CVS bag. He removes a bag of Oreos and a bag of Tositos.

"You," she says as she grabs the bag of chips, "are my hero."

"Excellent to know," he tells her as he grabs a bunch of the corn chips from the bag. He smiles at her.

"So, why are we here?"

"I was running this morning and I happened to be on my way back and guess who I saw near the river?"

"Who?"  
"House and Cameron."

"Together? I didn't know they'd be with each other this long."

"Yes, they looked very together. And what do you mean, this long?"

"I called House's cell. He said he was with her."

"Oh. Dependent on the old boy?"

"Quite, actually."

Cuddy grabs another chip.

"So where are they now?" Wilson asks.

"See that family of four walking towards us now?"

"Yeah."

"House and Cameron are right behind them. I left fifteen minutes ago from my hiding spot, grabbed the car, and brought it around to this entrance. I've been waiting for them for a while. You're just in time to tag along."

"And why is this a problem?"

"It's only a problem if those two keep their distance from one another. That's why you and I are here to make sure they get together. He needs her."

Wilson snorts.

"He needs a new leg and then he'll be okay."

She looks at him.

"You're a pessimist."

"And you're a romantic."

"You spend too much time with him."

"No one else gives a damn about me. Haven't you noticed?"

"Well, you _did_ piss off the nurses by hitting on every one of them in between divorces."

He glares at her.

"It isn't like you've done much better with the friend thing. Everyone on the board hates you and people barely respect you."

"My choice."

"Right, sorry for the mistake."

Silence overcomes the car.

"There they are," Cuddy points and whispers.

Cameron and House are walking side-by-side and avoiding eye contact. House says something and Cameron responds.

"I wish they would get together. He'd be a whole lot easier to work with if he had sex," Cuddy says.

"People say that about you, too."

"Everybody says it about everybody else. That's why it's called a cliché."

"There's no need to be nasty with me. House is the one you're always angry at. I'm just Robin to his Batman."

"Or Dumb to his Dumber," she mutters.

"Hey, I didn't have to come along, but I came. I left my wife all by herself on a Sunday morning. She does not like being left alone."

"What'd you tell her?"

"Hospital emergency."

"Good, then this is official hospital business. Operation…we need an operation name."

"Um. I don't know. Cupid's insipid isn't it?"

"Very. Eros?"

"Too Greek."

Wilson and Cuddy pause for a moment and ponder operation titles.

"Let's see. I don't know. We'll think of something. What do you think she has in the bag?"

"If I know House, he probably wants to know the same thing. Although he did mention condoms when I talked to him last…"

"You don't think—?"

"No, I personally do not think she is that hopeful about this situation."

"How do you think they got together?"

"House said he asked her for coffee. I think he's just covering up the fact that she asked him or something. He never liked it when Stacy wore the pants in the relationship."

"No man does."

"Yeah, it kind of hurts what's left of our balls after women like you get through with them."

"Women like me?"

"Yes, women like you."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Well, simply, that we don't have a lot of energy left after sparring with…witty…women like you. Takes a lot out of a guy."

"Liar."

"At least I'm a good one. Duck, they're coming this way."

Wilson and Cuddy stick their heads between their legs for a few seconds to make sure House and Cameron pass without noticing the two doctors in the car. Wilson lifts his head up first.

"All clear. But they look like they're calling a taxi. Are we going to follow them?"

"Why not?"

Cuddy hands Wilson the bag of Tostitos and buckles her seat belt.

"Buckle up. It's going to be a bumpy night."

"Stop quoting famous movies."

"Stop being a prick and put your seat belt on. I don't do well with liability lawsuits."

He grabs the belt and clicks it into the holder. Cuddy maneuvers her Lexus sedan out of the parking lot and follows behind the taxi in which Cameron and House seem secluded.

"This is fun," Wilson says after a few minutes of silence.

Cuddy smiles at him.

"Yeah it is. But we've got to get them together—at least keep them together. You have any idea where they're going?"

Wilson looks out the window at the passing scenery.

"Not to House's house, that's for sure. This is not his neighborhood. It looks like we're heading for commercial Princeton?"

"It seems like they're going towards the university. You think they're headed there?"

"House went there for his undergrad degree. Maybe. But I doubt it. It's summer break, I doubt that there would be anything interesting going on. Although—"

"—You never know with House."

Cuddy keeps the Lexus a few cars behind the taxi to make sure hypersensitive Cameron and ultra-observant House don't suspect anything. The yellow car makes a few more turns and Cuddy follows it. Wilson chews on an Oreo.

"Wait. I think I know where they're headed," he says between bites.

"Where, my dear boy-wonder oncologist?"

"I hate that nickname."

"You can have your choice of nickname for me if you'd like."

"House would jump at the opportunity."

"And you're not?"

"Well…" Wilson blushes and stuffs another Oreo in his mouth. Cuddy can't help but recall how much lard is in between the chocolate wafer-cookies.

"God, what's wrong?"

"'Boobs' isn't appropriate is it?"

Cuddy hits the brakes a little harder at the next stop sign. Some crumbs fly from Wilson's mouth.

"No, it is not. And do not get crumbs all over the Very Expensive Automobile. Now, where did you say you think our charges are headed?"

"Well, it may seem far-fetched, but when House was younger, less jaded, really, he used to go to this place near his house just to unwind and spend time in a place no one could find him."

"And where would that be, _Dickey_ Wilson?"

"_Jimmy_."

"You called me 'Boobs!'"

"It was a compliment!"

"Where are they going?"

He looks out the window again.  
"You're a child," she murmurs.

"I'm right," he mutters and Cuddy sees the taxi stop in front of them and let House and Cameron out of the its confines. Cuddy turns her head to see out the windshield and looks at the building where House and Cameron have stopped.

"A church!"


	8. What He Does for Her

_"That nice young preacher, Brother Taylor, dropped by today"_

_"Said he'd be pleased to have dinner on Sunday, oh, by the way"_

_"He said he saw a girl that looked a lot like you up on Choctaw Ridge"_

_"And she and Billy Joe was throwing somethin' off the Tallahatchie Bridge"_

_--Bobbi Gentry, "Ode to Billie Joe"_

He makes the cab stop at a church he once attended with Stacy. He takes Cameron here because he loves Schaendenfreud.

(This time it's a woman on the bed. He avoids glancing at her head.)

She smacks him on the shoulder when she sees the building looming in front of them. He mounts the steps and she has no choice but to follow.

(The only familiarity throughout history is the fervor that religion produces. Religions beget easy excuses.)

He pushes open the wooden door and holds it open for her, ushering her through in a gesture of decorum that reeks with sarcasm.

(It's always something different. He takes a seat by her side and attempts indifference.)

She stiffens when she sees the pastor, but he doesn't mind and waves to the man of God.

(Jesus in toast, the Virgin Mary on the wall. _Nuns run bald through Vatican halls._)

He grabs her hand and makes her follow him to the front of the large room of worship. Pews to his right, pews to the left, vaulted ceiling above their heads—it's a church.

(He looks into her eyes. They burn and make him feel as if he's five.)

They reach the front of the room and the preacher opens his mouth.

(Long live the king, and God save the Queen! Bullshit, the whole thing is just so obscene.)

The pastor talks and he feels her straighten because she's a good girl who was raised a Christian, but turned her back on faithless religion.

(He takes the patient's hand. Humanity, one must understand.)

"You must realize," the man talks and he sees Cameron cringe as he drones on about the Apocalypse, the Apostles, and the Archangels.

(Holy declarations and divine rights. These things have never prevented petty fights.)

"Excuse us, could we have some private time?" Cameron asks for both of them and the priest is flummoxed at the request.

(The fingers stroke. Sometimes, he chokes.)

"Of course. But I am here if you need me," he tells them.

(There are too may religions. He feels like a confused pigeon.)

"I prefer to worship _God_—" she sneers, "—in the peace of my own sinful mind."

(Fingers to lips. Hands to hips.)

The Father looks affronted. House rolls his eyes and contains his shock and surprise at Cameron's ballsy gesture.

s

(There was once a Children's Crusade. How badly they were betrayed.)

"Excuse my companion. She's a doctor, but her bedside manner is rather…weak," he smiles full of butter and grease.

(Appendages travel upward. He's such a bastard.)

"Shut up," she mutters, but the priest is gone. House knows the clergyman will throw him out if any desecration occurs.

(Popes were never holy men. They mated, _fucked, _and went around again.)

"Why'd you take me here?" She whirls on him now. God is her secondary target. House—he's tangible—they don't even know if God is real.

(She's a _patient_. Cuddy wouldn't like this duet—this try at accompaniment.)

"To see you squirm," he steps closer.

(And they turn their back when it really matters. How can one be oblivious as the world shatters?)

She does not speak, so he bends his head to be closer to her ear.

(He retreats from the bedside. There is no convenient place to hide.)

"You said you trust me. You want to be like me. Welcome to my God damn sanctuary. You asked for this, _Eve_. You're standing there and you're begging me to make you understand me. You can't. You never will. I am not understood."

(There's a rector, at St. Patrick's in New York, he recalls, who screwed the secretary in a motel. Great behavior for God's management personnel.)

"You also said that I'm everything you can't be. Well, if I'm everything you can't be, then I'm also a church-going man."

(Now he's pacing. Always, pacing, running…racing.)

He moves his head back to his position on top of his neck. He straightens and walks to the front of the church, where the pews end and the pulpit begins. He kneels to pray and spite and plead with God. She stands in her place before her anger tumbles over Bibles, chrysanthemums, and Him.

(There was Solomon and Noah. Cain and Abel. _Cane_ and fucking _able_.)

"You have no idea why God means nothing to me!" She inappropriately shouts at his back and he can feel the sound waves hitting him. Hard.

(He drops his cane. This situation resembles something infinitely more mundane.)

"Please," the priest enters from stage left, "this is a house of God."

(The priests in Boston molest little boys. What's a little noise?)

House turns his head to see Cameron's look of malice shoot towards the father. House and Cameron talk at once.

(He picks it up. Dreaded sense of feeling floats back to his leg and this is all post-breakup.)

"Go—"

"She's addled—"

"Shut up!" To him and not the priest. To Him and not he.

(Jesus died on the cross. There has never been a bigger loss.)

"Miss, I must ask you to—"

"Mrs.," she breathes and House almost collapses.

(His weight's too much. And she's laughing at his need for a crutch.)

"And is this your husband?"

(Where was God when Hitler reigned? Why hasn't any clergymen explained?)

"My husband," she smirks, "is dead because of the God you worship. There's a structure to Heaven, but your God is a merciless one who thrives on human suffering!"

(He's sinking again. In this memory, he's never right—he's never certain.)

"Allison," he whispers.

(And what about evolution? God's prized story—creation—is still fighting against Darwin in educational institutions.)

"Not now," she responds and lets her chin point at the reverend.

(But it's Stacy and then Cameron and Stacy and Cameron and they're all dying. And all he can hear is crying—crying!)

"God is compassionate," the priest attempts.

(God bless America. God bless America.)

"If there was one deity, one deity, who looked over us all and controlled our every movement, and he was compassionate, why wouldn't he save us from pain?" She shouts again.

(And then Cameron's in a bed in a church. He's full of regrets and he hallucinates and sees a black angel sitting on a perch.)

"It's not a deity's fault the human race is a disaster. We bring it upon ourselves," House growls at Cameron.

(Jesus had a wife. Then again, many rumors play out after life.)

"Please, God loves all his children."

(He's the one who should be laying in the bed! He bled!)

"Hitler? Bin Laden? He let's them live, but He couldn't let a decent man survive!"

(What people do in the name of God. They use Him as a justifiable façade.)

"God has a plan for everyone."

(It was his leg. Let them live, he'll beg.)

"What about me?" They ask in unison.

(Scripture's bitter. The Bible's a broken religious transmitter.)

"God has a plan for everyone," the priest reiterates.

(He didn't have a plan for him. Well—He did, but it involved him losing muscle from a limb.)

House stands and starts to slowly thump out of the church. He lets his cane swing by Cameron's leg because he can't touch her himself—flesh-to-flesh contact is too unnatural for him.

(The Jews escaped slavery. As told in _The Ten Commandments_, the human race is decidedly unsavory.)

"Then why doesn't he tell us?" Cameron inquires.

(What if it had been she—Allison or Stacy—in his place? Could he make the same decision and then look into their face?)

"God is a mysterious being. He works in His own way. Perhaps his plan involves us never knowing what his plan is."

Cameron snorts at the cliché and starts walking after House.

(Adam and Eve—garden of paradise—Eden. Their lives and paradise will never be that golden.)

House turns to the still-shocked priest.

"Thank you," he tells him. He one-ups Cameron at her job of sympathy.

(He keeps the muscle in a jar. It's less disgusting than his scar.)

"One more question," she chirps from her position behind him, right before the door.

(And they bit the apple. This shouldn't be happening in a chapel!)

"Yes?" And there's dread in that response from the preacher.

(He decides that he couldn't have made that decision. He's a doctor but that doesn't mean he still can't have emotional incisions.)

"Why can't He be a She?"

(God's son died for _Homo_ _sapiens_' sins. Yet we still continue to poke His Voodoo dolls with pins.)

"Political correctness has no place in a church."

Cameron frowns and pushes past House out the door. He follows quickly and quietly.

(He may be missing part of his leg, but he's still able to decide whether or not he believes in God. And being with Stacy—a believer—made him want to not believe, and now with Cameron—a non-believer—he wants to believe.)

That's it. He wants to believe.

(But why the Hell would he want to sacrifice himself to God? To reach some God-run ruin in the sky?)

"So, Chase is afraid of nuns and you can't stand priests?"

(She doesn't believe and now that he does, he's not sure he can tell her.)

"Sounds about right."

(What he does for God.)

(_No_.)

What he does for her.


	9. These Old, Forgotten Wars

**Author's Note: **I don't dedicate chapters, but I'll dedicate this one. For a world slowly descending into madness, for people stranded by Katrina, and a special toast for all those leaders out there who make the word mean less and less every day. (But bitterness aside, pray for Katrina victims and all those overseas.)

_I believe in the kingdom come_

_Then all the colors will bleed into one_

_Bleed into one_

_Well, yes I'm still running_

_--U2, "I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For"_

They exit the church. She starts walking (walking) madly, blindly, never stopping. He follows her and is next to her arm and she says then:

"Why the hell did you do that to me?"

(The price of oil soars and all she can think about are old, forgotten wars.)

"This is why."

(Battles she fought with her parents gasp at the surface. She doesn't need this—hasn't she already paid her penance?)

"To see me scream at you like this?"

(Washington crosses the Delaware to surprise the sleeping British. Is it right to attack on Christmas?)

"I've been told I'm a masochist."

(Her mother bakes cookies full of chocolate chips. They are warm and comforting and do nothing for her hips.)

"I hate you."

(America's revolution turned the tide of the world. Repressed peoples, colonies yearning to be free…all hail the great flag freedom unfurled.)

"Then why are you here?"

(Her father walks in the door. Her parents don't talk and this she chooses to ignore.)

She stops and listens as the church bell tolls and an ambulance shrieks in an ironic harmony.

(There are wars fought inside white marble. And the public worries about the muttered garble.)

"It wasn't nice," she says and continues walking, walking, never stopping as he stands where he stopped.

(Her eyes close and she tries to remember happiness. There's nothing but darkness and the great abyss.)

"You weren't expecting nice. How stupid are you, Cameron? What the hell is wrong with _you_?"

(Out of the sea come ships, thousands floating across the ocean, a barrier built to protect. Oh, but, let us digress. It's made by nature—not by humans—so what can you expect?)

The question slams against her back and she clenches her jaw. There isn't anything wrong, there isn't anything wrong…say it enough and perhaps it'll come true.

(So she leaves her house at the age of seventeen—she's always been too young. She has no where to run, no where to go—she does, but she does not belong.)

She continues to walk (walking, walking, never stopping) and he plods along behind her. She's taken control again, of the physical aspect of this relationship.

(Then there's a fully unjustifiable war in which justifications are made in the name of some common-sense filled destiny. Yeah, that's definitely no biggie.)

But he holds the emotional power over her. He smirks and he knows this and she tries to lead him to somewhere that will hurt _him_.

(And then rich boy meets scholarship girl. The cliché still makes her want to hurl.)

"So, have you decided where to take me yet?"

(And then it comes. The country divides and is told that it cannot succumb.)

"I'm going to take you to the first place I can find that'll string you up by your toes."

(They fall in love. But what is _that_ other than some tight-fitting, suffocating glove?)

"Spending a little too much time with Chase are we? Never thought you were real big on the whole bondage idea. But then again, Chase is quite the sweet talker."

(So two becomes one and battles that are won have actually just begun. And the next wars come—our lesson still not learned—and we still fight with bright and shiny new guns.)

"Shut up."

(It's an irritating cough and every time she hears it she cringes. Soon, she'll have to learn to adore it and to calm her fears she spends too much time on studying binges.)

"Touchy?"

(Then the War to End All Wars because we're stupid and naïve and think that humans can live without an entirely human invention. Politicians and madmen have notoriously bad comprehension.)

"I am not touchy," she grits her teeth, folds her arms across her chest, and keeps walking (walking and never stopping).

(She marries him when he's dying. She thinks of black during her white wedding and it's not happiness when she starts crying.)

"Yes, yes you are. Is it me? Why are you doing this to yourself? You could have said no!"

(It takes a few bombs dropped and six million Jews killed before the ostrich gets its head out of the sand and finally realizes the difference between pacification and wrong decisions. But we console ourselves by thinking that it's never too late to take treaties and make revisions.)

She throws out her arm for a cab. One comes gliding to halt on the curb. She turns to House and her eyes burn his. She can't stand this, she can't do this, but she does and she can. And he's right, essentially—it is her fault.

(He dies. It is not a surprise.)

"I could've said no."

(But then, then there were atoms splitting—unremitting. The force unequalled, the government always wanting more and more—keep committing!)

"But you didn't. Why?" He asks.

(She finishes med school. Moves on through years, months, and believes that one day she won't be pitied for being a widower—and, secretly—a fool.)

"Do you need this cab or not?" The impatient driver asks.

(Korea hitches a ride for a few miles, but it's the Cold War that drives the car. School-time drills, fallout shelters, and Atomic fireballs—yet somehow we are able to turn it into the "best", most peaceful decade, and focus our attention on TV stars.)

"Yes," she tells him and slips into the backseat. House grabs the door before she slams it shut and he gets in with her.

(She worries about molesters and rapists when she tries dating online. She never relaxes with the idea, even with the absence of crime.)

"So, why?"

(And then Vietnam. It becomes an adjective more loaded than any hydrogen bomb.)

Cameron instructs the driver to go to House's apartment. She looks out the window.

(Job offers comes, but she prefers learning to working. Within weeks, she spends mornings wondering why she took the fellowship as she sees him smirking.)

"Damn it," he says and grabs her arm out of its folded position. She looks at him.

(Iraq invades Kuwait and once again it's America to save a poor defenseless country! America the great, America the country that prides itself on its gallantry.)

"Because I have this stupid idea that I might get to like you. That I might get to love you."

(Now she's here with him walking—walking and never stopping!—aimlessly. She's been thinking of wars and her life…oh, and having him torment her shamelessly.)

"Well," House smirks and lets her have her arm back. "Your view of the world is certainly warped."


	10. And in the End

**Author's Note: **Sorry for the wait. Last chappie. Thank you for the beta, Marti!

_And this is how the world ends…_

--TS Eliot, _The Hollow Man_

And so it goes. They dance and sing and their movement flows—together, separate, once more with passion. Down, down they spiral…where they stop, no one knows!

"Your view of the world is warped," House tells Cameron, as they speed along (past trees, past houses, past happy families.)

"And yours isn't?"

They both rely on their clouded visions—delusions and insinuations.

"The world view is subjective. Get your head out of your ass—nothing in this world is ever objective."

(But isn't love clean cut and full? Yes, of course, after it burns and scorches all that's in its way—subjectivity and objectivity and cavities full of blood—beating veins and pulsing heart.)

She's quiet now, because the dirty window beckons to be watched. He traces the patterns of dust and dirt in the side of her neck, mimicking the window, mocking the glass.

"Stop touching me."

(Commands and retorts and similes and metaphors all somehow blend together. She and he disband their alliance against invisible foes and difficult deities because permanence is a word that they've long ago chosen to ignore.)

"What if I don't want to?"

(And it's a hand to her cheekbone, brushing blush, spreading shadows—down her face, across her forehand—it's his hand, her face, time and space.)

She turns her head and his hand stops moving. She's staring at him with tears in her eyes (and there aren't any tissues available, so he does the decent thing and wipes them away. Because she wants him to stop touching her and he doesn't like to listen to people.)

"Then don't."

So he does. She bows her head and he takes a bow. When she looks up, her eyes tear into his, ripping them apart, showing every bit of hatred, every bit of love, every bit of confusion that is skipping through her mind. He wishes he were blind. It's his turn to turn his head and gaze out the window.

(Happy families are lies, he thinks.)

"Coward," she enunciates the two syllables with clear perfection.

"And you're an idiot, Cameron. You think I'll propose to you in the midst of flowers and marry you in Paris. You think we'll live happily ever after with a picket fence, three kids, and a dog. You think that when we're old—when _you're_ old, because I already am—you think that you'll take care of me and nurse me when I'm sick. You think, Cameron, you wish."

(And they rush by these buildings, edifices in which they normally hide. Bricks and glass and steel—Superman couldn't see through lead and they can't see their emotions through building materials.)

"That was Stacy's dream not mine, and don't you dare confuse me and her because I am not like that!" She speaks in bitter tones and House looks at her now because she's going to tunnel through his head with her eyes.

"Because you stayed with a man who was going to die? Didn't he want to die? Didn't it get too much for him? Didn't he just hate you? Didn't he hate the pity that you looked at him with? Didn't he just want to kill you when you made all the decisions? Been there. Hated Stacy. And I'm starting to hate you."

"If you're starting to hate me, you must have liked me at some point. Hate materializes only in the absence of love."

(The cab driver listens to the conversation and shakes his head every once and a while. He needs a new profession.)

House scowls at her and sees a car behind them. Cuddy's Lexus he knows.

"Cuddy's following us."

"What?" Cameron gasps and turns around.

Behind them is Cuddy and Wilson trailing them, watching them, waiting for them. Cameron turns around again and slumps into the seat. There only needed to be two (three) witnesses to this melodrama—she and House (and the taxi driver.)

"What should we do?"

(Because she is, anatomically, a woman and thus it's up to her to let the man save the day and gain the glory and the fame because the world's a screwed up place. Men are the ones in the shining armor and the woman wear long and frilly dresses. Stereotypes remain the same.)

"Lose them and then drop you off. Mr. Driver, that Lexus back there is trailing us. I'd be most appreciative if you took some really crafty turns and lost them as you now take us to 80 Lafayette Street."

The driver glances back at House who is leaning forward in the seat. Cameron is seated with her arms crossed looking sullenly at House.

"Gonna cost ya."

House turns his attention to his pocket and withdraws a crisp, hundred-dollar bill.

(Ben Franklin made a name for himself in Philadelphia. Greg House's legacy resides in Princeton.)

"Will Mr. Franklin work?"

(_Asshole_, the driver thinks.)

"You'll pay the tab. If it's a hundred bucks, then, yeah, Mr. Franklin will be fine."

"Good," House says and leans back into the seat.

"Is civility such a hard concept for you?" Cameron asks.

"Is having a backbone a hard concept for you?"

"Wilson's in the car with Cuddy," she states blandly and once again turns her head.

(Marriage is symbolized by gold bands and engagement rings studded with diamonds. Shame such a strong material is so soft.)

"Good for him. Maybe he'll get laid tonight. He's a big breast man, that Wilson. That's why I just can't believe he flirts with you."

She slaps him. He deserves it.

"I think we lost them," the driver declares.

(He won't take them to the hospital. He's so not in the mood for fighting spouses; he's never seen a man be slapped before. This is a first. Perhaps he doesn't need a new job…)

"Great. Nice job. Your tip went up."

The taxi cab driver speeds up and Cameron clutches at the strap hanging from the ceiling and he clutches to her. His mouth moves to her ear and he tugs on her earlobe with his mouth.

(Sex is power and money is power. Power is money and power is sex. Such a strange word—_power_. Such a strange word for such a strange idea.)

She gasps and she's all his now. The bag that she's been carrying all day is curled in her lap and he slips his hand between her legs to remove it. He leans back against the seat and as he does, Cameron leaps across him to grab at the plastic, but it's no use. He peaks inside.

"Ben and Jerry's? Did you know this wasn't going to end well? You know, if I had known you had ice cream I would have hurried this little escapade up. I'm not a complete bastard."

"Give me my bag," she hisses.

"Aw, you're not any fun. Bet you're terrible in bed. Can't believe Chase ever found you interesting enough to screw."

"Shut up," she says and grabs the bag. The taxi comes to a stop.

"We're here. Tab is $45," the man tells House.

House flings the hundred-dollar bill at him and grabs Cameron's wrist, dragging her out of the car. 

"Keep the change."

(The driver knows he should stay and make sure neither one hurts the other, but somewhere in the hundred dollars of cash he's just received is the motto _stay quiet_.)

"Thanks," he says instead and drives off.

They stand side-by-side for a moment and he flings her wrist from his grasp. She totters and almost falls to the ground. He stands there and then he hears a cell phone ring.

(He hates telephones.)

She looks offended. She's a woman and she's weak and she's supposed to look like this—helpless.

"You wanted me to fall," she whispers as she holds her wrist close to her body. It's been chafed by the contact with his skin—more chafed than it ever was by the plastic bag.

"Yes."

(Declarations and long-winded statements—emotions persist and sometimes it's not simple enough to just want to exist.)

They stand there now. There are tides, ebbs, and spider webs. He slings glances; she shoots looks. Caught in between ephemeral and evanescent, they know the time but question the end.

Emotions ricochet through their minds—cold, empty, and fake. They're two people—hes and shes permeate history. This is Puccini's greatest opera, Mozart's best sonata—life and love and the empty spaces they yearn to fill in between. _Take me to the moon—land me on a star_. This is nothing they've ever known. It's everything they've suspected. Pins and voo-doo dolls—cells and tissues—the things they do to make themselves human. Scars abound on his liver; they criss-cross like valleys over pink mountains. They live—they die. The acts balance themselves, but no one's ever sure how "the end" is a fair trade off for breathing. They'll fall down until they fly—they'll rise until their wings stop their tremulous pattering. Things in abstract and ideas in concrete blur themselves in funny contrasts. Laugh and cry, wipe and dry. They'll live again some other day.

"I hate you," she says.

He looks at her and starts walking away.

"So this is your scrap of dignity?" she shouts as he retreats. He waves no white flag. He walks with a purposeful stride.

"Yes it is! This is my scrap of dignity. You own all the rest. Keep tearing me limb from limb, muscle from muscle and there'll be nothing left," he shouts and the sentiment carries on the wind back to her. She cannot kill this messenger.

(It's the first question he's answered all night.)

He leaves and she dissolves. There are pieces of her that he covets and there are pieces of him that she clasps. They'll never be whole unless they come together. But they're two puzzle pieces soaked too long in water—their ends are no long crisp and neat and their shapes are cleverly distorted. Some puzzles never ask to be solved.

(And, as they retreat, two telephones start to speak...)

END


End file.
